Sunday Best

by Edward O. Phillips

  “I will overlook the insult, Geoffry. Nor am I going to rush to Douglas’s defence, even if you do grossly underestimate him. Once he is married he will make an excellent husband. I could almost feel sorry for Jennifer because she will never know. A man is not automatically gay because he is sensitive. Anyhow, perhaps Jennifer will come to her senses and realize she has made a foolish mistake.”

  “You still refuse to believe he broke off the engagement, just as you persist in believing he will marry one day. Maybe he will, but he shouldn’t. Being exposed to heterosexuality will not make a homosexual do an about face. Marriage will not inoculate him from, or build up antibodies against, other men. One of the sillier heterosexual myths is that all a homosexual needs is one good lay from a member of the opposite sex and, like a vampire, he will turn into a slavering straight.”

  “You seem quite the authority,” Lois spoke down her nose. Her attempt at hauteur went flat. She needed to be taller, thinner, with more prominent cheekbones for that kind of grandeur.

  “I am. And I also know the root of Douglas’s problem. He has not yet learned to be honest with himself, so how can he be honest with other people? And for that he owes no small debt to you.”

  Lois stood abruptly. “I’m sorry I’m not a man. I’d show you a thing or two.”

  “I’m sure you would. And no one is sorrier that you are not a man than I. But we are getting off the subject. Jennifer did not axe the engagement; Douglas did. Jennifer told me only a few minutes ago. My nephew, the ex-head usher, also told me that Douglas told him this afternoon that he intended to call the whole thing off. Not surprising when you consider Douglas has been putting the make on Richard, or trying to, ever since Richard got off the bus.” I too was slanting my facts, but I wanted to stick it to her.

  “You really are vile.”

  “I don’t have what is known as a way with children, if that’s what you mean. In fact, I’m just truthful, with perhaps more vinegar than oil. Next time you are putting on your eyeliner, pause for a moment, study your reflection in the mirror, and ask yourself, ‘Where did I go wrong? Why did I fail as a mother?’ Someone ought to take that young man into an alley and slap him bowlegged.”

  Lois laughed a brittle stage laugh. “Do I perhaps hear the voice of wounded vanity? Did you by any chance make a pass at Douglas yourself, only to be rejected because he doesn’t like old fairies?”

  “Not fairy, Lois, homosexual. If I were a fairy you wouldn’t have tried so hard to put the make on me. But you are barking up the wrong shins. When the mother is breathing hard down my neck, I do have the taste to keep my hands off the son.”

  Lois started towards my chair. I could tell she intended to slap my face. I stood and raised my arm in front of me. Her hand hit the side of it. With my other hand I pushed hard against her shoulder. She executed an involuntary buck and wing across the white carpet to land with a soft plop on the bed.

  “What I fail to understand, Lois, is why you would waste time on a burnt-out case like me when you are screwing the chauffeur, twenty years younger and finger-lickin’ good.”

  “You sonofabitch!” Lois struggled to her feet, like someone treading water.

  “Just remember, Lois my sweet, every cloud has a silver lining, tarnished at times, but silver none the less. With a gay son you won’t have any telltale grandchildren to pinpoint your age. You can go on being forty-five for the next twenty years.”

  A knock sounded at the door. Lois stamped across the carpet and wrenched it open.

  “Some guests are leavin’,” sang the maid. “They want to say goodnight.”

  “To be continued,” I said as Lois patted herself into repair. “Don’t forget to smile.”

  “Bastard!” she hissed as she stalked out.

  I stood, irresolute, as Lois followed the maid downstairs. An interrupted fight is more frustrating than an interrupted fuck, mainly, I suppose, because good fights are scarcer than good fucks. First-rate fights and fucks start slow, build gradually to a screaming climax, then taper off into detumescence or detente. Best of all is a no-holds-barred fight followed by an all-stops-out fuck, but I doubted that was to be the scenario this evening. Anyway, hyperventilation is better than no breath at all.

  Faute de mieux, I sat in the white chair and resumed eating. After the tense exhilaration of truth seasoned with malice, I could no longer face polite party chatter. At least alone I could continue the fight in my head, reviewing all the things I didn’t have time to say and luxuriating in regret for my esprit d’escalier.

  My reverie of aggression was to be short-lived. Patrick ducked into the room.

  “I’ve been looking all over for you. Can you give me a hand?”

  “Two, if necessary.”

  “The street is being ploughed and the limo is in the garage. The chauffeur’s in the kitchen having something to eat. Could you cover me while I sneak into the garage, stall him if necessary?”

  “As the French would say, I’ll do my possible. But really, Patrick, I think you should be paying me.”

  He smiled a quick smile. “Remember, tonight is on the house.”

  We made our way unobserved to the basement. At the far end of the large space stood a glossy furnace, which looked as though it had just arrived, gift-wrapped, from Birks. On the wall between us and the furnace, a door covered in sheet metal led into the garage. Patrick slipped through the door, leaving me on guard.

  The basement walls had been refinished in knotty pine, that psychedelic panelling which brought to mind the forties, when self-reliant homeowners turned basement areas into recreation rooms. How many teenaged evenings did I spend in rec rooms, complete with ping-pong tables, automatic record players that dropped records down a spindle with a clank, camp cots covered in burlap with bolsters along the back to simulate couches, and Air France travel posters taped to the walls?

  Feet started down the stairs. I hoped they belonged to one of the maids, or the cook, but well-pressed trousers and shiny oxfords announced the presence of a man. Could it possibly be one of the bartenders looking for the basement bathroom he had no doubt been instructed to use? But the bottom of the jacket matched the trousers, and the bartenders were wearing maroon pea jackets.

  Even though technically drunk, I had a sudden flash of apprehension, a realization that Patrick and I might be in grave danger. Were this supposed chauffeur truly involved in narcotics, large amounts as Patrick suspected, then he wouldn’t fool around. He would no doubt be armed, with a knife, if not a gun. And there was no question in my mind that he would not hesitate to use either.

  It also occurred to me that in our haste to scurry down to the basement, the frolicking mice taking advantage of the cat’s absence, we had not mapped out what precisely I was to do should our adversary suddenly loom. I was going to have to make it up as I went along. It was one of those situations that is infinitely more amusing in the movies than in real life, like a man in a chicken suit having to pee.

  The shoes continued resolutely down the stairs, finally bringing the entire man into view. Obviously unprepared to find me standing alone in the basement, the chauffeur paused at the foot of the stairwell. But not for nothing had I read all those fatuous self-help articles on “How to Succeed in Business,” each of which tells you to grab the initiative on first meeting a prospective client. I seized on that brief moment of hesitation and walked up to him. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  He studied me suspiciously. “Would you like me to drive you home, sir?” Even in that straightforward question I caught an echo of the voice on the telephone.

  “No, at least not yet.” I did not feel in the least amused, but I still managed to smile. “I was wondering if the two of us could get together some time, perhaps on your day off.”

  He stared at me blankly as he tried to fathom my meaning. “Excuse me?”

  “Come on now, Melvin. You know what I mean. Every time we meet we look at one another. Just the way we looked at each other upstairs, earl
ier this evening. Are you trying to tell me you don’t know what that kind of look means?”

  I could see understanding beginning to dawn, comprehension blocked by disbelief.

  “Do I have to spell it out?” I continued, lowering my voice in a strangulated attempt to make it sexy. I had manoeuvred myself to face the furnace, thereby obliging the chauffeur to stand with his back to the door to the garage. “You’re a good-looking guy, young, strong. I like Latin types. I’ll bet you’re dynamite in bed.”

  Even as I spoke I could see the garage door open a crack. Patrick pointed at the furnace. Whatever that crazed detective was up to, I had to keep the chauffeur’s attention fixed on me. I reached out and squeezed his upper arm. Solid muscle, should he decide to take a swing. Physical contact has always been an attention grabber; to be touched by someone you are trying to avoid compels attention.

  “Look,” I began, “I’m not an unreasonable man.” I could see Patrick slip through the door, push it to, and move on silent feet to crouch behind the furnace. If my heart was not in my mouth it was only because my well-tied tongue did not leave it room. “I realize you are from the Caribbean.” Tension made me stumble over the b’s, but I carried on. “You’re probably sending money home each month to your family. I’m quite prepared to pay for a service, provided the service is satisfactory.” I half closed my eyes and took a short step forward. Involuntarily, the chauffeur took a corresponding step backwards.

  “So you see,” I continued, “you don’t have to warn me away from Mrs. Fullerton. It’s not her I’m interested in, but you. Now, how about driving me home and coming up to my apartment for a while.” I was doing a bad imitation of Mae West. “You can say you got stuck in a snowbank. You might even let me have the first one on the house, in exchange for the tire you ruined. Come on now, what do you say?”

  I moved in close. At the same time I partially opened my mouth and ran my tongue suggestively over my dry-from- nervousness lips. This time there could be no mistake; my message came through loud and clear. I watched the man draw in on himself, as though he were being sprayed with a noxious chemical, every fibre of his machismo vibrating with outrage. For just a second I thought he might strike me. Then again, I was only a drunken guest coming on to the help.

  “Maricòn!” he muttered. I knew it was not a compliment.

  “Think it over,” I said, still doing my bargain-basement Mae West. “You know where to find me if you change your mind. I’ll make it worth your while – any way you say.”

  I was certain he wanted to spit in my face. Instead he moved sideways out of my odious aura and ducked into the garage. At once Patrick came around the furnace and made for the stairs, which he took two at a time. I followed, one at a time. The coast lay clear through the butler’s pantry.

  “Back to the bedroom,” he whispered and led the way up the back staircase to the second floor, where we ducked into Lois’s bedroom*

  “Close the door.”

  I did as ordered. From under his jacket Patrick took a parcel the size of a loaf of bread and wrapped in brown paper. Carefully he peeled away the wrapper to discover a plastic bag that contained a white, powdery substance.

  “Looks just like icing sugar, doesn’t it?” he said.

  “How should I know? I never bake. Is it what I think it is?”

  “What else? If it were cornstarch, why would it be hidden with the spare tire? There must be almost two kilos here.” Patrick glanced around the room, then slid the package under the bed. “Do you suppose there’s a phone up here?”

  “If you can find the thing. It’s probably white.”

  A telltale cord led us to the night table, whose bottom drawer pulled out to reveal a white princess phone.

  “This is a matter for the police,” said Patrick as he dialled.

  I did not have a chance to overhear the conversation. His terse, urgent message was interrupted by Lois barging through the door.

  “Don’t bother to knock,” I said, crossing to pick up the drink I had abandoned. By now the ice had melted, diluting the scotch.

  “I believe this is my bedroom,” she replied, surprised to see Patrick.

  He put down the receiver. “Please close the door, Lois. And listen carefully to what I have to say. Are you aware, that your chauffeur is dealing drugs?”

  Lois had obviously intended to pick up where she and I had left off, and the question stopped her short. “What do you mean, dealing drugs? He’s a Cuban refugee who drives my car.”

  “Lois,” I began, “this is no time for bullshit. Not to mince words, you had better cover your ass. Patrick is a private investigator whom I hired because I had reason to believe I was being threatened by your chauffeur. He has a record. Patrick has just found a package hidden in your limousine, which we suspect is cocaine. The police are on the way. We have pretty good evidence that Melvin is, or has been, your lover. For your own sake, if you know anything, anything at all, now is the time to tell us.”

  “Geoffry’s right,” added Patrick. “You could be in trouble, or at least in the papers, which often amounts to the same thing.”

  Lois Fullerton was a wilful woman, but not a stupid one. “I may have been indiscreet, once or twice, a woman alone. I’m sure you understand.” She made the quintessentially feminine gesture of touching her hair. “But I know nothing whatsoever about any drug dealings.”

  Lawyers and investigators develop a gut instinct for the truth. I believed Lois, and I could see Patrick did too.

  “Your driver has been using this job as cover,” he explained. “It was perfect. He had a false identity and a car at his legitimate disposal. He must have thought that if you took up with Geoffry you would discard him, perhaps dismiss him, just at a time when he couldn’t afford to give up this job, not with something big just about to happen. He threatened Geoffry, phone calls, notes, a slashed tire.”

  “Why did you never mention it to me?” demanded Lois.

  “I couldn’t be certain it was he. That’s why I hired Patrick. Then when we learned what he was probably up to, we didn’t want to frighten him off.”

  Further explanations were interrupted by the bedroom door opening quickly. The chauffeur stepped neatly inside and shut the door behind him.

  “All right, junior detectives, game’s over. Hand me the package, and now. I’m with the RCMP,” he said, reaching into his inside jacket pocket. He pulled out a wallet and flashed a badge.

  “Better check it out, Patrick,” I suggested. “It could be from a novelty shop.”

  “It’s the real thing,” said the chauffeur quietly. In spite of his colloquial English, he still sounded as though his first language was Spanish. “And if the badge won’t convince you, perhaps this will.”

  From a side pocket he produced a small but very businesslike pistol. “Now, I don’t have time to argue. Give me the package.”

  “What package?” replied Patrick, bluffing for time. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The one you took while Mr. Chadwick headed me off. Hand it over. Now!”

  As Patrick had uncovered the cocaine, I figured it was his party. Up to this moment I was prepared to let him call the shots, but I am allergic to bullets.

  “Patrick,” I said quietly.

  “You bastard!” Lois spoke low, but with venom. Ignoring the pistol, she marched up to her former lover and slapped him hard across the face. I guess that was the slap originally intended for me. Talk about more guts than brains.

  The butterflies in my stomach were the size of pterodactyls.

  Placing his large hand on a bust that was hard to miss, the chauffeur gave Lois a sharp, hard push. She took a few short steps backwards, like someone executing a tricky dance routine, and landed spreadeagled on the bed one more time. She was taking more pratfalls than a second banana.

  It takes more than a tumble on her back to down a tough broad like Lois Fullerton. She crawled to the end of the bed and levered herself upright, quite obviousl
y unharmed, even though her chignons had taken a beating.

  “For the last time – the package!”

  My immense relief at seeing Patrick reach down and slide the incriminating parcel from under the white satin peplum could not be expressed. I didn’t give a tinker’s fart about that damn cocaine, but I cared a good deal about Patrick’s not being shot, not to mention what bloodstains would do to that white carpet.

  Moving slowly, Patrick crossed the room to relinquish the package. A knock sounded at the door. Lois went quickly over and pulled it open. A worried maid stood in the hallway. “Excuse me, Ma’am, but some officers are here. Shall I show them to the buffet?”

  A burly man in a brown tweed suit shouldered his way past the maid, followed by a second man who lingered in the doorway.

  “Ronalds, ma’am, RCMP,” he announced, proffering a badge that looked just like the one the chauffeur carried. “Sanchez!” he almost shouted at the chauffeur. “Where the hell have you been!”

  “Why don’t you ask these two boy scouts?”

  “We caught him in possession of cocaine,” said Patrick. “That’s it, in the parcel.”

  “Cocaine we provided so he could nail our local dealer.”

  “You mean he really is one of your agents?”

  “Go to the head of the class,” barked Ronalds. “And he’s supposed to be in the east end of the city in ten minutes. He may still be able to make it. Ma’am, we’ll have to take your car. Don’t worry; if there’s any damage we’ll pay. He must show up in his uniform driving the limousine. Now let’s move it. We have no time to lose. Sanchez, as fast as you can. Let’s hope they think you’ve been delayed by the storm. I’ll explain later, ma’am.”